by Val McDermid
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Bodyguards would be a good place to start,” he mimicked.
“Well, she deserves it. Honestly, Kit, I don’t know how you can put up with all that archness.”
“I’ve always had a weakness for high camp,” he confessed. “She’s good fun, Fiona. And generous to a fault.”
“Only if you’re a chap, darling,” Fiona said, in a parody of Georgia’s grand manner.
“And they say men are bitches.” He slid his arms around her, pressing his body against hers. “Have we stopped fighting now?”
Fiona sighed. “I overreacted. I always have Lesley at the back of my mind. Even when I don’t know it myself.”
“Thank you, Caroline.” He buried his face in her hair and kissed her neck. Then he pulled away. “Oh, and by the way. I just wanted to say, I’ve never heard a bigger load of bullshit in all my time with you. “I’ll subject the letters to professional psycho linguistic analysis.” Honestly, Fiona.”
“Georgia seemed to think it was a good idea.”
“Yeah, but Georgia’s grasp on reality is shot to fuck. Let’s not forget she actually believes our policemen are wonderful. And that accusations of racism and corruption against the Metropolitan Police are wicked lies spread by left-wing conspirators.”
“They’re not?” Fiona’s eyes widened in mock-horror.
“I don’t know how to tell you this, Fiona, but there’s no Father Christmas either.”
She pulled his head down towards her. “I’ll just have to see what you’ve got in your sack for me, then.”
TWENTY
The following evening, as usual, Fiona picked up a copy of the Evening Standard at the tube station on her way home from work. The lead story on page three so astonished her that she made no attempt to board her train when it pulled into the station. Instead, she carried on reading, transfixed. Queen of Crime Found Murdered Bestselling American thriller writer Jane Elias has been brutally murdered in a horrific crime that mirrors the gruesome violence of her own work, police in County Wicklow revealed today. Her mutilated body was discovered by a local forestry worker in the early hours of yesterday morning on a back road near the country estate that had been her home in the Republic of Ireland for the past four years. She had been so badly mauled by her killer that identification was impossible except by a distinctive scar she sustained after back surgery three years ago. A police spokesman said, “Experienced officers were shocked when they saw what had been done to the victim.” “Miss Elias had lived in this area for four years and was very popular with local residents. We are pursuing various lines of inquiry, but at this stage, it’s hard to imagine why anyone would want to do this to her.” Her British literary agent, Jeremy Devonshire, expressed deep shock at the news. “It’s appalling,” he said. “I can’t take it in. Jane was the most charming of women. We worked together for the past five years and I can honestly say we never had a cross word.” A spokesman for her publishers, Turnhouse Bachelor, said, “We are deeply shocked by this news. Jane was not only a shining talent but also a delight to work with. The whole company is grieving today.” Psychopaths Jane Elias leapt to the top of the bestseller lists on both sides of the Atlantic seven years ago with her first novel, Death on Arrival, which introduced forensic psychologist Dr. Jay Schumann, an FBI serial killer profiler. There followed an award-winning series of novels, three of which have been filmed by Hollywood, including her debut novel. The adaptation of Death on Arrival, starring Michelle Pfeiffer, won an Oscar. Jane Elias was notable for her reclusive lifestyle. Unlike most top-selling writers, she shunned publicity, only rarely emerging from her seclusion to talk to the press. She explained her move to Ireland as a desire for peace and quiet which she could no longer find in her native New England. Security at her Georgian mansion on the shores of Lough Killargan was notoriously tight, with permanent guards and closed-circuit TV monitoring the five-mile perimeter fence. In spite of that, she played an active role in her local community, most recently writing a play for the local church dramatic group to help raise funds for a children’s play group A keen sailor, Jane Elias maintained several boats at her private marina. This morning, there was speculation that she may have been attacked while she was sailing one of her yachts on the lake.
Shocked, Fiona read the story again, half expecting that this time the words would rearrange themselves in a different order. But the news remained the same. A woman she had sat opposite at dinner less than three months before was now a murder victim. No amount of familiarity with the business of homicide investigation could lessen the immediacy of the cold horror that swept through her.
Fiona had no recollection of the journey home, her mind entirely occupied with memories of Jane Elias in life and the images her informed mind conjured up of the writer’s body in death. They had met on Jane’s last trip to London, on the publication of her seventh Jay Schumann novel, Double Take. Jane and Kit shared a publisher, and because of Jane’s reluctance to make public appearances, Turnhouse Bachelor had arranged a series of private dinners for senior buyers in the book trade and key reviewers. To maximize their benefit, they had also invited a couple of their other crime authors to each of the dinners, which was how Kit and Fiona had come to meet the American. Of course, as soon as Jane had discovered Fiona’s professional interest in crime, she had been far more interested in talking to her than any of the other guests, and the two women had spent a large part of the evening deep in gruesome discussion of murder and its motivations.
Fiona had been drawn to Jane, first because of her intellectual incisiveness but also because of her acerbic wit. She could see why Jane had prevailed against the understandable demands of her publishers for her to take a more active role in promoting her work. Anyone who had once been on the receiving end of that caustic tongue wouldn’t want to repeat the experience in a hurry.
But now that voice was stilled forever. It was, Fiona thought as she plodded up Dartmouth Park Hill, a loss she felt more keenly than she would have expected. And now she would probably have to break the news to Kit.
She walked through the front door to the clear voice of Tracey Thorn revealing that she was out among the walking wounded. Fiona knew just how she felt. She walked into Kit’s study, finding him hunched over the keyboard, fingers flying. She put a hand on his shoulder and kissed the top of his gleaming head.
“Gimme five minutes,” he said abstractedly.
Fiona left him to it. Bad news always came too soon. Better that he finished what he was focused on than she interrupted his flow with something so momentous that he would always connect it to that chapter, that paragraph. In the kitchen, she poured them both a glass of cold white wine and sat down at the table to wait. The five minutes turned into twelve, but Fiona felt no impatience. There was nothing either of them could do for Jane now.
At last, Kit appeared, grinning a greeting that faded to uncertainty when he saw her sombre face. “What’s the matter?” he asked, concern furrowing his forehead.
Fiona pushed a glass towards him. “Bad news.” There was no way to sugar-coat it, so she didn’t even try. “Jane Elias has been murdered.”
Kit’s hand froze halfway to his drink. “Jane?” he said, incredulous. “Murdered? Where? When? What happened?”
Fiona pushed the paper across the table. “That’s as much as I know.”
Kit dropped heavily into a chair, reaching for his wine and scanning the paper. “This is terrible,” he said, shaking his head. “Poor Jane. Shit, I can’t believe it.”
“I couldn’t take it in either. She was such a strong personality. It’s hard to imagine her as a victim.”
“It’s a fucking nightmare.” Kit ran his hand over his head in a gesture of consternation. “And it’s only two or three weeks since Drew was killed.” He stopped dead in mid-gesture. “You don’t suppose they’re connected? Somebody going after thriller writers?”
“No, I don’t,” Fiona said firmly, reaching across
the table and putting a hand on his arm. “There’s no reason to think that, Kit. Different countries, different gender, different body dumps. The fact that they both wrote psychological thrillers is just a horrible coincidence.”
“You always say there’s no such thing as coincidence.”
“OK, maybe not quite coincidence. It’s possible that somebody who was as obsessed with Jane as Drew’s killer was with him saw the stories about his murder and decided that was the best way to deal with the object of his desire. But to decide on the basis of these two cases that there’s a killer out there targeting people who write crime fiction is a nonsense.”
Kit shook his head and sighed. “Yeah, I know. It’s just that I live in a world where conspiracy theory always seems more attractive than cock-up. It’s like, it would be easier to believe that there’s a serial killer on a spree than that there are two seriously fucked-up individuals out there who get their rocks off murdering writers. And when you factor in the letters…well, it just seems like there’s a fuck of a lot of crazies out there with an interest in people like me.”
“I can see why it feels like that. But I don’t think it’s anything more than bad timing, I really don’t.” Fiona felt the hollowness of her words even as she spoke them. There was nothing she could say to help, and she hated that feeling.
Kit pulled away and slammed his hands palm-down on the table. “I mean, how could this have happened to Jane? Of all people? She guarded her privacy so closely. Everybody knew that place of hers was like a fortress.”
“Maybe that was the challenge,” Fiona mused, unable to ignore the professional wheels going round. It was always her refuge of choice when she didn’t know how else to respond. She wasn’t proud of it, but she didn’t know how to change it. Or even if she wanted to. Some of her best ideas had come out of work as displacement activity.
“Why would anybody have it in for her?” Kit demanded. “I mean, sure, she generated a lot of envy from other writers. But people who say they’d kill for Jane Elias’s sales figures, that’s just talk. Writers don’t take out the competition like the Mafia. But outside the business why would she be a target?”
Fiona shrugged. “The usual reasons. Love, hate, greed, fear. Was she involved with anyone?”
Kit shook his head. “I’ve no idea. I never heard any gossip about her personal life. Which is unusual in itself. You know what a rumour mill the book world is. Everybody knows everybody else’s business. I could tell you what her last advance was.”
“Which was?”
“Eighteen million dollars for a three-book deal. But I’ve never heard anything about who she was shagging. If there was anybody. Maybe she was just one of those people that aren’t bothered about sex. I certainly didn’t get any vibe off her. Did you?”
“No,” Fiona said. “Nothing flirtatious, either with the women or the men at that dinner.”
“That’s right. Dead cool, kept her distance. The only time she really got animated was when the two of you got stuck into that stuff about the compliant victims of the sexual sadist.” He got to his feet and headed for the fridge, where he started methodically removing vegetables from the chiller. “Couscous and roast vegetables,” he said, half to himself.
“When in doubt, cook,” Fiona said affectionately. “You want to talk about it?”
“Nope. I’m going to chop the hell out of these vegetables and then I’m going back to work while they cook. Best therapy I know.”
She finished her drink and stood up. “I’ll be upstairs if you need me.”
Kit nodded. “You going to check it out on the Net?”
“You know me too well. You don’t think I’m being a ghoul?”
Kit half turned and grinned. “The bells are ringing for me and my ghoul,” he sang in his bass voice. “Go and dig the dirt. You can serve it up with supper and calm my irrational fears.”
Fiona returned his smile. Unbidden, the thought came to her that if Jane Elias had had a lover, someone was in unbearable pain tonight. “Call me when it’s ready,” was all she said. It felt too much like tempting fate to tell him how much she loved him. Extract from Decoding of Exhibit P13⁄4599 Uimef afmxx ketmf fqdqp mrfqd vmzqq xume. Mxxui mzfqp fapai meexq qb. Upupz fzqqp mzkbu xxefa wzaow yqagf quftqd…I was totally shattered after Jane Ellas. All I wanted to do was sleep. It was as if I wanted to wipe the memory of it from my brain, and sleep was the best way to do it. I couldn’t even pick up a pen and keep the record straight until today.
Of course, I couldn’t kill her on the boat, because I didn’t want to get blood everywhere. That would have been completely wrong, in the context of the book. So once I’d got her unconscious, I had to sail over to the sailing club landing ramp, get her out of the boat and finish her off in the shallows there. But my luck held. I let her bleed out a bit in the water, then I got her in the back of the 4x4 and set her boat adrift on the lake. Let them work that one out, I thought. Then I did what I had to do. I don’t know why, but it felt worse than doing Drew Shand. Maybe because she was a woman. Or maybe because I had to strip her and she looked much more vulnerable than she did with her clothes on. Everything went according to plan. And from what I read in the papers, it sounds like the message is starting to trickle through. Not before time. Now, it’s time to start thinking about number three. Georgia Lester. I’ve been reading her book again, and why anybody would publish it, never mind turn it into a film, is beyond me. It’s unfortunate that my plan will help sell more copies of her pitiful book. Butthat can’t be helped. I’ve got to keep thinking about the bigger picture. I’ve done a recce on her cottage in Dorset, and it’s perfect for what I want to do. It’s finding when she’s going to be there that’s the difficult bit. I know she’s in London this week, and looking at her engagements on the website, I think she’ll go down to Dorset at the weekend and come back on Tuesday or Wednesday. I’m not looking forward to this one little bit. It’s the worst prospect so far. What I’m going to have to do to her is so horrible. I keep rereading the bit of the book that describes it, and it turns my stomach to think I’m going to have to copy that. But I can’t stop now. That would make everything I’ve done so far completely pointless. When I feel like this, I look around me and see what I’ve been reduced to because of what they did to me. I don’t get any pleasure out of doing this, but it does give me back my self-respect. I haven’t taken everything they’ve thrown at me lying down, and that’s worth something. So I just have to grit my teeth and do what has to be done. Two down, four to go. They should have got the point by then.
TWENTY-ONE
Like police officers, fire fighters and journalists, Fiona had discovered that the fastest and most effective tool for putting emotional distance between herself and the terrible things her job forced her to confront was black humour. So when entering Jane Elias’s name on her meta search engine threw up a website called Laughing With the Dead Celebs, she couldn’t resist.
Jane Elias’s death had been in the public domain for less than a day, but already she merited her own cartoon tombstone. Fiona clicked on Jane’s name. The screen dissolved into a coffin-shaped frame. “Jane Elias killed somewhere around forty-seven people in her seven novels. Some would say it’s about time she discovered what it feels like. Not us, of course. If jokes about death offend you, don’t scroll down this page.”
Fiona, naturally, carried on scrolling. So far, there were only four contributions.
Why did Jane Elias have to die?
So she could finally get her hands on a good plot.
Do writers know when they start out how it’s going to end?
Jane Elias obviously didn’t!
What did St. Peter say to Jane Elias at the pearly gates?
“So, Jane, whodunnit?”
What was the motive for Jane Elias’s murder? Sales figures to die for.
Only the first was worth a smile, and a pretty thin one at that, Fiona decided, closing the site and heading for a more conventional tribute web page.
The first site she checked out was one that had been created by a fan. It simply said, under that day’s date, “Jane Elias was found murdered today. This site is closed as a mark of respect.”
She had more luck with her second choice, also an act of devotion from one of Jane’s readers. The bare details of the murder were reported and below them were a series of boxes offering hyper links to other areas of the site. Offered a choice of Her Life, Photo Album, The Investigation, Condolence Book and Related Links, she opted for the photographic record first, curious to see what the site’s creator had been able to assemble, given Jane’s notorious camera-shyness.
First came the jacket photograph that had only ever appeared on her first novel. It was an unremarkable face, the sort it would be hard to describe in terms that would differentiate it from a million others. Mid-brown hair in a jaw-length bob, parted on the right; straight brows, dark eyes, an absolutely average nose and full lips that curved in a faint smile, giving nothing away. She was wearing an open-necked shirt, revealing a thin gold chain round her neck. Apart from the blonde highlights and a few more lines etched into the corners of her eyes, she looked exactly the same as she had on the night Fiona had met her.
Next came her high-school yearbook picture. The hair was longer here, hanging straight to the top of small breasts, but still with the same parting. At eighteen, Jane had worn unfashionably heavy-framed spectacles that made her eyes look unfocused. Her face too was fuller, almost plump. If all Fiona had had to go on was this, she doubted she’d have picked Jane out of a crowd.
A third photograph showed Jane accepting the first of her two Edgar awards at a Mystery Writers of America dinner. Her smile was broad and unselfconscious and she looked surprisingly elegant in a figure-hugging black dress that shimmered with sequins.